{ scene } i wonder how you'd be if someone were to call you on it
The strange adjustment coming off assignment is one constant in James's life- there are more of those than you'd think, although it'd be a challenge to get him to name many of them. Ordinarily he spends it loafing around his London haunts or pretending the flat doesn't feel like a cage, but when he signs himself (somewhat painfully) out of the ( Read more... )
Calling Pela is in and of itself something of a gamble; there is no guarantee she'll have her pinpoint with her, and even less of one she'll answer it. Generally she does mind it, since James is considerably more interested in the use of technology than she is, but she is headstrong. Still, her appearance today is mostly (...arguably) fortuitous; she was bored, reuniting with her countrymen under the sea is rather hit-or-miss in terms of acceptance, despite all she's done for them, and she goes where she likes. Even if there are whispers about her close involvement with land-walkers and worse, humans, she is considered a hero, and few people will question her openly.
Certainly none of the men.
He might be more keenly attuned the flash of her tail in the water by now, but he still receives very little warning before she comes slicing through the top and regards him calmly, silent.
He is injured. And morose-looking.
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All the same he doesn't startle - or he forces himself not to, because christ that'd hurt - but rather lifts the glass, takes a drink, and remarks, "There you are," like he'd been expecting her. The fact that he hadn't is, obviously, irrelevant; he wanted to see her, and here she is without any effort on his part.
Pro tip: most people don't mix bad injuries, painkillers, and alcohol. These people lead long, healthy lives. James probably won't, but he doesn't seem to mind that.
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"What did you do to yourself?" It's as imperious as it is vaguely concerned; he's obviously well enough to be sitting here, so it's not life-threatening, but the princess does not approve of his being maimed.
She has no idea that you shouldn't mix alcohol and painkillers, much less with injuries, either, but that's probably no shock. Pela still hates liquor.
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"There was this log coming towards me, so I obligingly held still until it was quite done hitting me," he supplies helpfully, with a small and crooked smile. (He's always been better at the kind that look slightly unpleasant.) "Are you coming up here or do I have to keep yelling across the rocks?"
Shut up, James, you're barely raising your voice.
(Maybe he'd like to touch her and he can't risk the water right now. Maybe he could just say that- well, one of those statements was more likely than the other.)
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"I am." Because she'd like to check him over, yes; Pela may be the more emotionally open of the two of them, but she's got her pride. (And several other people's, given the size of said pride.)
She clambers out of the water on her 'human' legs a few moments later, dripping wet and naked, though she carries it, as always, like it's the most natural thing in the world for her, not necessarily burdened with sexuality -- because it is. Following this, she crouches by James on her hands and knees and leans forward to kiss him on the mouth, that strange, intimate thing she's only done with him and ideally only will.
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James holds the glass down against the rock so it doesn't spill or smash, but he's only got one good hand right now and that's it; he kisses her back without reaching for her like he usually would, or leaning far. (That's one way of checking how his injuries are.)
"That's better."
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Seeing as he's injured, she leans in closer yet, skin brushing his clothes and getting him somewhat damp in the process, though she's careful, unsure of where he's tender. Mermaids and humans are both fragile, in their own ways, but sometimes she forgets with herself and with James, too.
"Where are you broken, hmm?" She kisses him again, this time closer to his jawline.
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He holds up his strapped and cast wrist, letting his jacket's sleeve pull far enough to display it more clearly. "It's all very minor," he says, dismissively, not mentioning the rib injuries that will likely be revealed anyway, probably sooner rather than later. His head still hurts, too, an egg on the back from where he hit the concrete dulled to a thud by self-medication and the more official sort.
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"I can't trust you to be honest about these things," she sighs, "I don't know if it's that you do this on purpose or out of instinct, but you're terrible about being injured. So! I will keep you company."
He gets no choice in this, apparently. This way he doesn't have to ask.
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"I've had practise," he says, dryly; all told that is not the most comforting thing in the world he could've said. At least he's not difficult enough - today - to protest her staying. (He improves in small ways, but it's slow and irritating going and he really doesn't make it any easier to be patient with him.)
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"Yes, I've noticed from all the scars. I promise to be very good company," she tells him, sweetly, leaning in to kiss his jawline again. She figures that his face, at the very least, is uninjured, and therefore he can appreciate attention there.
But nowhere else.
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"I'm sure you will." He tips his head far enough to kiss her mouth, which is oddly enough a novelty with her that has yet to lose its shine. (He thought about this once, and then decided not to think about it too hard, after all.)
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Pelagia will perhaps never be totally accustomed to regarding kissing as 'normal'; it is, after all, a somewhat sacred act in her culture. She bites his lip, because that's what she does, and draws back just enough to regard James with curiosity.
"Do your human medical technicians not have the ability to care for your injuries?"
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"I don't need a doctor right now," he corrects her, draining his glass and setting it down on the rock. (Apparently he's less concerned about losing it once it's empty.) "I'll go back when I need the cast off."
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"The 'cast' is strange," she remarks, thoughtfully, reaching out to touch his arm just above it with ginger, gentle fingers, "at home we have our magic to deal with these things. But you wouldn't like that, would you?"
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"No, and I'd have trouble explaining it to home office, too." He watches her fingers on his arm, above the unadorned white cast, maybe debating whether he'd like it more or less than the inconvenience of having to wait for his body to heal. He doesn't comment, either way.
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